Harold Cromer: Song and Dance Man

HAROLD CROMER: SONG AND DANCE MAN "It's okay, I'm accustomed to this," Harold Cromer laughs, crouched on the stairs outside a locked dressing room at Town Hall. Being forced to camp out on chilly steps is nothing new for Cromer, who has experienced plenty of ups and downs throughout his 70-year career as a legend of tap dance and comedy. He's one of the last of the old-fashioned "song and dance" men.

After prying his way inside, Cromer, sporting a white sailor's cap and knotted plaid scarf, sits down to recall his start in show business.

"As a kid in the late 1920s in Hell's Kitchen," he begins, "my twin sister and I used to go to the Chelsea Theatre on 8th Ave., where I saw the great Bill Robinson tap dancing. As kids, we were all playing hockey out in the street on roller skates. While I was rollerskating and playing hockey, flashbacks of Robinson would come to me, and there I was, trying to emulate him on roller skates-and not falling down, either!"

Cromer's roller-skating routine became his trademark, bringing him steady exposure in theater, vaudeville and films during the 1930s and 40s. His period of greatest success came during the early 1950s, after he joined forces with another gifted dancer, James Cross, and became a member of the comedy team "Stump and Stumpy." The pair worked steadily in theaters and nightclubs (often on bills with the likes of Billie Holiday and Frank Sinatra), as well as on television programs such as The Milton Berle Show.

During these years, Stump and Stumpy inspired a generation of young comedians-including Jerry Lewis, who has publicly cited their influence.

"Lewis and Martin took our ideas and used them, they really did. They used to hang out with us after our shows, learning from us. Lewis never denied it, but what bothers me is this: If we're together, and you make a couple bucks, give me a chance to make some money also. They didn't do it. They continued to soar, but my partner and I went downhill. We got lost, and I'm still trying to pick up."

Stump and Stumpy became casualties of what Cromer describes as the "one at a time" rule for African-American entertainers. For every Sammy Davis, Jr. enjoying the spotlight, there are scores of talented black performers who never earn recognition.

"Joey Bishop will tell you. When Sammy Davis, Jr. died, Bishop was on a radio show, and said Stump and Stumpy-they were the greatest."

Through all the frustration, Cromer never lost his love of the theater and performance. Downstairs at rehearsal, he dances with fleet-footed precision, plays a harmonica solo and sings in a warm, hearty voice. The other performers-most of them 60 years younger-watch in hushed respect.

Passed down from Robinson to Cromer, and now on to these young artists, the song and dance tradition survives.